


A Chance (you have to take) in Love

by killerjoe1995



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: 70s era, Aftermath of Sexual Assault, All boys living together, Attempted Sexual Assault, Brian is trying, Coping, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Freddie is a jerk, Friends With Benefits, He has Reasons, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, John & Roger friendship, John is deep into guilty lane, M/M, Misunderstandings, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Open Relationship, Protective John Deacon, Sexual Harassment, Threats of Violence, band before success, but only because he doesn't know, peacemaker Brian May, roger is a mess, self-sacrificing Roger Taylor, threats of injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-03-17 09:06:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18962164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killerjoe1995/pseuds/killerjoe1995
Summary: Freddie is happy with what he has with Roger. The blond is exiting, funny, beautiful and a great shag. They can enjoy a night together without attachment, and the morning after is never an issue.But when something happens to Roger, their agreement suddenly stops. Roger needs something different now, and even if he hasn't asked anything to Freddie, the singer has to make a choice: will he give up his freedom for the opportunity of something more? Or will he leave Roger to fend his nightmares alone?





	1. Balance Shifting

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! 
> 
> So, I had this story in mind for some time, and I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it xD  
> I hope someone would like it.
> 
> It treats dark themes (I added quite a lot of tags, I hope to have covered everything). I'm aware that it's a bit unrealistic, at least this first chapter is, but well, it's a work of fiction.
> 
> English is not my first language, I'm sorry for all the mistakes that I'm sure you'll find.

Chapter one: Balance Shifting

The pub was dark and smoky. The music pumped through the speakers, and the dance floor was packed up with people. The four bandmates were sitting on a stool in the back, with four pints, willing to have a good time after a successful gig.  
“And then I said -well darling, agreeing to that needs at least the booking of a gig in your pub next Saturday-! And here we are” Freddie finished with a flour, bursting into laughter. His slim arm was draped on the chair, hand resting on Roger's shoulder. The blond laughed too, even if with less cheeriness. Brian chuckled politely, while John instead said nothing, eyes narrowing. Freddie didn't notice.  
“Guess it's my turn” Roger commented, eyeing the nearly empty pints on the table. He immediately stood up and headed to the counter.  
Freddie took his last mouthful of beer, feeling satisfied. With calculated disinterest he let his eyes wander to the dance room. He felt like having someone big and rough this night. Absent-mindedly he looked to the counter, the lean figure of Roger clearly visible among the crow. Yes, Roger was gorgeous, extremely so, and a lot of people noted that. The man next to Roger at the counter leaned down to whisper something into his ear, the man's hand lingering lightly on his waist. He was hitting on him, of course, everyone did. Roger, unfazed, batted away the annoying hand and looked to the other side. Freddie felt a swell of pride, his boy has taste, that man wasn't worth his time.  
“You're not going to help him?” the question, delivered with a sharp tone, broke Freddie's musing. John was looking at him with a strange look, a mixture of quite rage and disappointment.  
“Roger is a big boy, he doesn't need me to fight his battles” Freddie shrugged. “Besides, if I even try to he's going to kill me” he added thoughtfully.  
“That's true” chuckled Brian, glancing side-eyed to Deaky nervously. Freddie looked at his two bandmate, confused. Where was all the tension coming from? Freddie raised a curated eyebrow.  
“Everything alright, darlings?” he asked, just to be on the safe side. He didn't like tension between his friends, they were his family.  
“Yes, of course...” Brian's reply was washed away immediately by an angry looking Deaky.  
“What the hell are you doing? Talking about your 'adventures' in front of him like it's nothing!”  
Freddie sighed dramatically, that wasn't the first time and, probably, wouldn't be the last.  
“John, dear, I already told you. What it is difficult to understand on the fairly simple phrasing 'friend with benefits', darling?” he mock asked, annoyed. John visibly bristled.  
“It is not 'friendship' when you take everything and give nothing, Fred! That's called 'abusing' and 'unhealthy'” he hissed. Freddie's eyes widened, that was an absurd accusation. He was going to reply exactly that, but the sudden arrival of Roger with the refill interrupted the heated debate. Freddie was relieved, he didn't want to pass the evening arguing with John about something that wasn't a problem at all. He wanted to have a good time, that's it. While sipping at his beer he looked again at the dance floor, eyes zeroing immediately on a fine looking man, at least one feet taller than him and with a roughish frame. He licked his lips.  
“I'll be going darlings, don't wait up for me tonight” he communicated to his bandmates, mind already at the other side of the room. He moved away from the stool, swinging his hips seductively. 

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Roger looked at Freddie's retreating back with resignation. He knew what they had, and that had always been enough. However, sometimes it seemed a bit... one-sided. Like Freddie had staked a claim on him that he could call whenever he wanted, and that wasn't reciprocated when Roger was the one making the call. And it was frustrating because Roger contributed to create their relationship this way, always saying yes and never complaining. Mostly because he didn't want to complain at all, that was the point, and maybe he really needed to sit down a bit and think about it. Or not, because it wasn't a problem and Roger was fine with what they had.  
Sure, and denial is a river in Egypt.  
Roger collapsed on his seat, glass already on his lips and a lit cigarette on the other hand. If Brian was going to complain about his chain-smoking he could kill him. Or, even better, drench him with beer. Definitely handier and less messy.  
“How can he treat you like that and not even get it?” John exclaimed, fuming. Roger glanced at him over the rim of his glass.  
“He can do whatever he wants, Deaky, is not like we have obligations or something” he answered, trying for nonchalant and actually making it. Oh, the pride.  
“Besides, is not like I care” he added in the same tone of dismissal, looking at the dance floor to not have to maintain eye contact with John. The boy was too perceptive for his own good.  
“Sure you don't” the younger man answered, clearly annoyed. Roger shrugged.  
“Guys...” Brian began, always the peacemaker, the poor thing. Roger didn't want to put unnecessary pressure on the man, it was Saturday night for him too. He needed a diversion.  
“I feel like dancing. Deaky?” he asked, smirking sightly. He knew he had him when he saw John eyes immediately shining. John scoffed, aware of Roger's trick and unable to say no to a good dance. They both stood up.  
“Brian?” Roger was kind enough to ask, even already knowing the answer.  
“No thanks, I'm going to preside the stool. And the beers” the tall guitarist said, predictably. He wasn't keen on dancing. Roger wasn't a fan himself, to be honest, but sometimes desperate times call for desperate measures. The blond took his brunet friend's hand and headed to the dance floor. 

In a matter of seconds Deaky was lost in the rhythm, hips swinging to the beat and eyes half closed. Roger tried to match his movement, aware of the fact that he was probably ridiculous, John small smile and encouraging hands signals only able to make him burst into a fit of unmanly giggles.  
“Come on Rog, you're doing great!” John exclaimed, the annoyance of before forgotten. One point to Roger in his endless conflict with life.  
“Sure, I probably look like an awkward duck. Definitely feeling like one” he answered merrily, he couldn't care less to be honest. He was with one of his best friends and having a good time, with his healthy dosage of daily self-irony. He was fine. More than fine. He was...  
Suddenly Roger felt himself falling back, a rough hand grabbing at his arm. His back collided with a firm body behind him and an arm snatched around his hips.  
“Hey there sweetheart. We meet again” a husky voice said just beside his earlobe. Roger rolled his eyes, he cannot have a moment of peace, could him? He already refused the man before, while waiting for his order at the counter. Was him some kind of masochist or just too stupid to get it?  
“Sorry mate, already told you, not interested” he answered smoothly, a rehearsed line that he offered one time too many for his liking. The stubborn nuisance didn't relent.  
“C'mon doll, I'll show you a good time” he carried on, slitting his hand a bit too much near his ass in Roger's opinion. The most alarming thing, tough, being that the man was clearly trying to get Roger away from Deaky.  
“I said I'm not interested, you wanker! Get off!” Roger repeated with more force, squirming his way out of the man's arms. To the blond immense relief, John was already in front of him, looking like the angel of rage.  
“Leave my friend alone, fucking asshole!” Deaky nearly screamed, a rare occurrence for the quite, laid-down bassist. Roger was thankful nonetheless, and took John distraction to free himself and move away. He stumbled a little, walking backwards to keep the man in his field of vision. Obviously, he ended up bumping into someone.  
“Oh, I'm so sorry...” he began, turning around to the poor soul he collided with, only to stop in his track, the dark eyes of one Freddie Mercury looking directly in his blue ones. Freddie Mercury, with his slim and attractive arms intertwined with an older and bigger man like a fucking koala holds on a tree.  
“Roger, darling, everything okay?” Freddie asked, a veil of concern covering his features. Roger felt like crying.  
“I... yes. I think” he managed to mumble, tongue suddenly heavier. Just his fucking luck, really.  
At that exact moment, Roger had a flashback of a night, some weeks ago; he was flirting with a pretty girl, with perfect curves and a cute smile, when Freddie appeared in front of him, all smirks and fuck-me eyes, asking Roger to go home early, 'like right now', because of an 'emergency at the flat'. Roger felt the aftermath of that emergency for days, nearly unable to sit down. Roger didn't really know why that particular memory came back in that moment, per se, but it was probably because his brain was smarter than what it usually shows, even to himself. In that moment, he felt like he deserved at least the same.  
“Darling?” the concerned question put Roger out of his haze. He focused his attention back on Freddie.  
“Actually no, I'm not. Do you mind coming back early? Is kind of an emergency...”.  
It was delivered perfectly. Not whiny, not demanding. On the right side of flirting, but enough to guess exactly how much that 'emergency' would give to the rescuer. And the final touch, a single battling of his eyelashes that didn't result ridiculous but just extremely charming. Roger knew what he had, and how to use it, and the end result was what he wanted. Only, this time, on the wrong guy.  
“I don't mind drive the two of you home early. What do you think, Fred?”. The idiot to which Freddie was clinging like a drowning man leered, eyes racking over Roger's body. Freddie demeanour changed completely, from concerned to annoyed.  
“No need to worry, darling, I'm sure Brian will be happy to help you. Or Deaky, aren't you dear? Look, he's already here”.  
And truth to be told, John was standing right next to Roger and the blond didn't even notice. Too occupied in trying to seduce his bandmate and occasional fuck who clearly wanted to have nothing to do with him for the time being. How could someone feel like an idiot and so terribly sad at the same time Roger couldn't explain, even if it happened to himself.  
“Yeah, sure. I'll leave you to your night, then. Have fun” Roger said, feeling empty. He turned to John.  
“Need to smoke, be right back”.  
Without even a glance behind, he made a beeline for the front door and exited in the cold night. 

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In a matter of second Roger disappeared into the crowd. John let his eyes linger on the space in which is friend was, then looked back at Freddie, feeling rage crawling inside.  
“Seriously, Freddie?” he asked, trying to keep his voice levelled. The singer was already with is back turned on him, clearly ignoring everyone beside the asshole he was with. He saw Freddie's shoulders drop.  
“John, darling, why don't you join Roger? He seemed a bit off” he offered distractingly.  
“I can't believe you, Freddie! You know what? I'll go with Rog, and you just hope to be able to 'join' him again after tonight” he hissed angrily, pivoting on his heels and going straight to the door.  
Fucking selfish, idiotic, moron. 

He found Roger just outside the club, leaning against the wall in the furthest corner, a cigarette between his lips. He joined him and stole a cig from his pack, Roger lighting it for him. They smoke in silence for some minutes, enjoining the cold air of the night.  
“You alright?” John asked tentatively, mentally bracing himself for one of the famous Roger Taylor's temper tantrum. If he was expecting it, he was disappointed.  
“Yeah. Will be, at least. This the program: finish my smoke, go back inside, find a good fuck for tonight and forgot everything by tomorrow morning” he answered off-handedly, eyes pointed on the street in front of him but clearly seeing nothing. John felt sad just looking at him. Roger, always the life and energy of the party, didn't deserve that. No one deserves that, in John's modest opinion, but Roger less than everyone.  
“You have to tell him, Rog. Or, at least, give him a taste of his own medicine” he insisted, it wasn't the first time that he tried to beat some sense in his two stubborn friends. Roger was always the more sensible one, though, so John thought he had more chances with him. Clearly that wasn't the case, because Roger only shrugged.  
“Deaky, I already told you, we didn't set bonds with each other. To be fair, we did exactly the contrary! And that's okay” Roger explained for the umpteenth time, eyes rolling. And it wasn't like John couldn't understand, because really, he did, but the after-effect of the whole agreement was different for the parties and that was just wrong. In John's modest opinion, anyway.  
“Yeah, but you always lose something in the end, Rog, and it isn't fair!” he retorted, trying to make Roger understand. Roger made an half-laugh.  
“Loser in the end. Sound like a good song” he answered, defeated. John would have said something more, but really, what could he answer to that? Roger stubbed out his finished cigarette on the wall, and stood up.  
“You know what? We have a dance hanging, and I was having a good time. What do you think?” he asked with a smile, and John smiled back. Roger seemed again a bit morr like his own self, and John couldn't ask for more.  
“Sure. We can even look out for some girls, I always get lucky too when I pair with you” John answered back, making the blond laugh out loud. Yeah, that was their Roger, and he won't permit anyone to change him. Not even the 'great Freddie Mercury'. 

However, their moment of peace was interrupted by an husky and slightly threatening voice near them.  
“If you're looking for a good shag, we can offer you one”.  
John's head whirled to the side immediately, eyes narrowing. He was the asshole from before, obviously the man cannot take an hint to save his life. More worrying, however, he wasn't alone. Three brutish-looking guys were behind him, surrounding him like a fucking court. John felt at a loss of words.  
“Thank you but no, thank you. We feel more like having birds tonight”. God bless Roger and his quick tongue. John stifled a giggle behind his hand. The man however didn't find it funny; he raised his eyebrows.  
“Well, doll, it wasn't a proposal”.  
All happened in a whirlwind. Roger put himself between John and the first man reaching for the brunet and punched him, hard. John felt his heart in his throat, that couldn't been happening. He froze on the spot, unable to move.  
“John, run away!” the urgent cry of Roger cut through his daze, and John was suddenly focused again. Roger's knuckles were bloody, his hand holding John's arm to make him move. John nodded, confused, and tried to reach the club's door. Key-world being trying.  
He felt hands grabbing his shoulders, and he trashed to get them off with no avail. Roger was before him, still holding for dear life at his arm.  
“Rog, help!” he cried out, unable to free himself alone. He was panicking, and in the back of his mind he knew it was the worst thing to do in a moment like that, all his senses should be focused at getting out of danger. He looked around, to see if there was someone else who could aid them. No such luck, it was already late and the street was empty. Only the two of them, against four, clearly stronger, man. Clearly at a disadvantage.  
Roger answered his cry, of course he did, but the odds were in his disfavour. He was able to knock a good one on the man restraining John, but two others immediately take hold of him. In a matter of a minute the two of them were restrained by two men each, John sporting a rapidly darkening bruise on his left cheekbone and Roger gasping for air from a kick on the stomach. In the fumes of adrenaline and fear, John felt how the two jerks holding him pulled in the direction of the darker alley near the club. Dread crept inside him, heartbeat quickening alarmingly. They were fucked. 

The man, the one who clearly had an unhealthy fascination with Roger, quickly slammed him on the wall, and the resulting whimper of pain escaping Roger's lips made John's blood boil. He trashed even harder, he had to help him! He took a deep breath to cry out as loud as he could, hoping that someone would hear. Before he could do anything, though, a rough hand slapped him across the face, making him gasp.  
“I don't think so, kid” someone, the owner of the hand probably, informed him, evidently amused. Someone laughed in the background. John felt like weeping, exactly like the kid they said he was. The offending hand was back on his face, enveloping his chin and placing itself over his mouth. He cannot speak, and his breath was laboured. He didn't want to pass out, but he wasn't sure of how much more he could handle. He heard someone speaking.  
“If you don't want more, substantial, harm to come to your little friend over there, I suggest you to stop moving” the fucking asshole said, and John felt cold inside. He was threatening Roger. He was threatening Roger using him! John had to do something, had to at least scream to Roger to don't bear whatever it was that the man wanted from him (and yes, John knew what it was of course, but he couldn't even think about it at the moment) just because... just because of John. Just because he was too weak to pack a punch and free himself. And John knew it was it's fault, because Roger would have been able to make a run for it if he had been alone. Roger stayed behind for John, because he was weak. Weak, pathetic and useless. He couldn't even scream.  
John saw Roger's eyes darting to him, and felt his own widening. He tried to communicate with just glances that no, he couldn't do that, he didn't have to, not for John, not... and, with growing dread, John saw the fight leaving Roger's body, his blue eyes half lidded with what seemed suspiciously like resignation. He trashed more, to at least be able to tell his friend to don't even dare, but his efforts were repaid by an elbow on his ribs.  
“It goes both ways, kid. Stay still”.  
After that, everything was blurred. John saw the asshole leaning over Roger, and then kissing him roughly. He saw how the man pushed Roger on his knees, while addressing him with degrading words among the laughter of his accomplices. John couldn't close his eyes, he would never forgive himself if he did. He wanted to be there if Roger would look his way, to show his friend that he wasn't alone. He heard the man demanding his friend to open his mouth, and he felt like crying. He focused his glance to the man's hands, gripping harshly blond tresses. He heard, more than saw, Roger gasps and choking sounds, and he tried to stay strong, he did, but he soon could feel the wetness on his own eyelashes. It felt like forever, were probably just minutes, but finally the man, with a loud moan, released himself over Roger's face. The blond coughed raspingly, tears flowing freely, and John felt like dying. He hoped that this violence would satisfy the asshole and his friends, but deep inside he knew that the nightmare had just begun.  
Suddenly a voice broke John's haze, a voice that he knew well, and relief washed over him like sun rays on a spring day.  
“What the hell? Roger!” 

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Brian was tranquilly sipping his beer when the drama began. He watched with apprehension the asshole who was harassing Roger, it wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be the last, but he was always a bit worried for his blond friend. Everything seemed fine with Deaky intervention, however, so he, feeling reassured, decided to stay put on his precious stool. He couldn't, for the life of him, guess what the hell happened with Freddie, but suddenly Roger was running to the club's door like something was chasing him. Again he decided for a non-interference policy, seeing that John stomped away from Freddie and in Roger direction with an angry scowl. Their younger friends would be fine, usually able to cheer themselves up without external inputs.  
After finishing his beer, and John's one too, a trip to the restroom was in order. The place was packed, and he had to wait for the line. Business finished, he went back to the dance room and looked out for his friends. Strangely, he couldn't find them anywhere. He looked more attentively, concentrating on the groups of girls (usually Roger was in the centre of them, with John lurking just behind him) and the dance room. In the corner, splayed on a small love-seat in the dark, was Freddie, entertaining the gentleman from earlier. Brian pondered for no more than ten second his course of action and then, with a shrug, walked to him. He cleared his throat politely.  
“Freddie?”  
The singer head popped up from where was buried in the man's neck.  
“Darling, seriously?” he asked, half annoyed, half amused. Brian rolled his eyes. Contrary to popular belief he knew when something was socially awkward, thank you very much. He just decided, half of the time, that he didn't care at all. That being one of the cases.  
“Did you see Roger and Deaky? Can't find them anywhere” he asked matter of factly, he didn't have time for Freddie's antics. To be totally honest, he had a bad feeling. Something was wrong, and the only way to calm himself was to have all the lunatic members of his dysfunctional family in sight.  
“Last I saw them, they went out to smoke. Haven't seen them again because, well, obvious reasons” Freddie answered, and not-so-politely made clear that it was time for Brian to disappear. The curly haired man turned on his heels and walked through the door. 

The street outside was strangely empty of blond loud-mouthed drummers and quite and sassy bassists. Brian looked left and right, just to be sure, and was already retreating into the dark pub when he heard laughters. Not amused, happy laughters of someone having a good time. No, those were mocking sneers that made his skin crawl. The bad feeling of before coming back tenfold, he headed towards the direction of the sound. Rounding the corner he found himself at the entrance of an alley, and there he froze.  
Roger was on his knees, a man standing before him, with an hand gripping his hair. John was there too, two men keeping him still and with an hand covering his mouth. Brian blood went cold at the sight.  
“What the hell? Roger!” 

Brian wasn't, usually, a person prone to violence. At that moment, however, he was hit by murderous instincts that he had never felt before. How they dared?  
Honestly he had never punched anyone in his life, but hitting the man closer to him felt incredibly good. John took immediately advantage of the situation, elbowing the other man who was restraining him hard enough to make him double with pain. Brian went on covering his opponent with punches and kicks, delivered with no much technique but extreme enthusiasm, while John, more efficiently, delivered a well-aimed knee on the groin of his adversary and concluded his fight. Brian looked over Roger, and what he saw made him growl. The blond had too tried to free himself but he was still two against one, and the men had him pinned against the wall, one of them with an hand inside his jeans. Brian didn't even have time to scream 'stop' that John was already dashing over them. He slammed on them with the force of a typhoon, and they lost their balance for a second. It was enough for Roger to kick out backwards and, with what Brian thought was a lot of luck, catching the man near him on the knee. The man stumbled over, releasing Roger. Brian was quick to react.  
“Rog, Deaky, run!” 

The three of them sprinted in a mad run, exiting the alley and getting inside the club, all of them breathing heavily with exhaustion and adrenaline. Brian took some deep breathes.  
“What the hell just happened?” he asked, only to stop at the sight of his friends. John was standing, keeping Roger upright by his shoulders. The blond was bended over the floor, head hanged down, and his breath was ragged. John was murmuring something to him, sounding desperate. Brian, for the first time, was at a loss: he didn't know what to do, how to make everything better. When Roger raised his head, and Brian could see tear tracks and traces of come on his face, he understood that he had arrived too late, the damage had already been done. Roger whimpered out, quietly, voice terribly raspy.  
“I... I have to throw up”.  
They moved quickly, half pushing, half dragging Roger to the restroom. Brian stood just outside the stall, looking over at Roger, heaving into the toilet, and Deaky, who pushed back the blond's hair while caressing his back soothingly. When it was clear that Roger was just dry heaving, Brian went over him. He gently moved John out of the way, he didn't really know what happened in details but could see that their youngest friend was as traumatized as Roger, and helped the blond on his feet. He ignored the obvious flinch of Roger when he touched him, even if it made his heart break, and pulled him to the sink.  
“Come on now, Rog. Rinse your mouth, mmh?” he whispered softly. Roger eyes were glazed over, red and puffy, but he nodded nonetheless. He shifted sightly, and Brian understood without needing words: Roger didn't want to be touched at the moment. When he was sure that Roger could uphold his weight he stepped aside, hovering near him in case his legs would give up. Brian glanced side-eyed at Deaky, still unmoving on the stall's floor.  
“John, could you fetch a glass of water for Rog? He needs to hydrate” he suggested, still talking quietly. John seemed terrified at the idea of leaving Roger's side, but then nodded and complied, exiting the bathroom's door. Brian eyes fixed on Roger.  
The blond had rinsed his mouth and washed his face. He was currently occupied with zipping his jeans, his hands trembling. After the third try Brian took over, moving slowly to avoid startling him.  
“Here you go. All better” he murmured. Brian was worried, Roger eyes seemed glued on the floor, cheeks red with what Brian supposed was shame. He wanted to hug him, to hold him tight and tell him that everything would be okay. Point was, he didn't believe it himself.  
“B-Bri...I... C-can we go home?” Roger rasped out, so quietly that Brian strained to hear. The guitarist's heart broke all over again, the desperation lingering in Roger's voice too much to handle. He nodded.  
“Yes... yes, of course Roger” he answered, defeated. 

They met John on their way out, the bassist holding a glass of water on both hands, which Roger drained like a man lost in a desert. Brian guided them both to the door, when he remembered that the head count was missing one.  
“Hold on, guys, I'm going to fetch Freddie and we can...” he began, but Roger's hand snapped immediately to his arm.  
“NO! Brian, please, don't” he croaked, eyes wide as saucers. Brian could relate to that, he too wouldn't want anyone to know. He was conscious that, in the near future, a chat about not bottling up everything would be needed, but he figured that Roger had endured enough for the night. He nodded.  
“Don't worry. I'm just going to tell him we're going home” he reassured his terrified friend. John took over immediately, holding Roger's shoulder lightly and resuming his murmuring. Roger seemed to relax a bit, and Brian felt safe to move away. He quickly scanned the floor, hoping that Freddie was still in the club. He saw him in the back of the pub, sat comfortable on his one-night-stand lap and laughing without a care. For one, fleeting, moment, he envied his obliviousness. He walked briskly to the two.  
“Freddie, we're going” he told him, not expecting an answer and not waiting for one either. He was already turned around, watching out for Rog and Deaky, when he heard Freddie's answer.  
“Bri, daring, what happened? You look terrible!”. Brian sighed loudly, thinking that he should see Roger to really tell. He forced himself to turn at least half-way, still keeping his younger friends in sight.  
“Yes, sure, everything okay. Just tired” he tried for unconcerned, without succeeding. He was a terrible liar, and Freddie could always call his bullshits. Freddie raised an eyebrow.  
“All of you? Bullshit, dear” he commented, standing up and looking curiously over to the others. John was currently hugging Roger tightly, the blond hunched over, completely enveloped in the other arms, with his head buried in Deaky's neck. Freddie's other eyebrow reached the first.  
“Ah. I see.” Freddie commented plainly, and all Brian could think was that no, he really didn't. John's eyes met Brian's from the other side of the room, and Brian suddenly remembered why he was in an hurry.  
“Okay, we're going. See you later, or tomorrow, mate” he said, and rapidly walked away. Freddie just hummed, eyes still fixed on the two men hugging, expression unreadable. 

The ride home was silent and uncomfortable. Brian called a taxi and the three of them piled into it, Roger still gripping on John for dear life. Deaky continued his whispering to the blond, too quite for Brian to hear, and the bassist's eyes where glazed over with suppressed tears. He was trying to stay strong, Brian realised, to be the one holding Roger, while he too was as shaken by the experience as the blond was. Brian wanted to help, but didn't know how to. He needed to sort out what exactly happened in that alley, and what was the role of all the parties in the drama, to understand what kind of help his friends needed. He looked at them again: Roger was nearly irresponsible, the only sign of him being conscious how he gripped at John's shirt, and the slight tremor of his shoulders. Brian decided that, if he wanted answers, he had to go to John first. Roger, after recovering, would probably bottle everything in a close compartment of his brain, and with his particular brand of stubbornness would pretend everything was fine. Yeah, Brian couldn't have that, no one of them should, Roger less than everyone. 

Brian helped the two into their flat, placing them both on the couch. He cleared his throat.  
“I'm going to make some tea” he proposed, uncertain. When he didn't receive answers he shifted to the kitchen, hearth in his throat and dread in his heart.


	2. Misunderstandings and Clarifications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie can't keep his mouth shut, John is scared, Brian is emphatic and Roger is angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings! I'm so sorry for the delay... sadly I was kind of busy with uni (as I already said to a lot of you), and I couldn't keep a schedule on fanfictions.  
> Anyway I'll finish this story, of that you can be sure! 
> 
> Thank to all of you that left comments and kudos in the first chapter, you made me super happy!  
> I hope you like this new one too :)
> 
> (again, no a native english here - if you spot something horrifying, let me know)

Freddie silently opened the door, boots already in his hand to don't make too much noises. It wasn't this late, to be honest, only four in the morning. They were used to come back home later in the night, or sometimes to don't come back at all. Freddie had planned to go at his one-night-stand place that night, but then changed program, settling for a quickie in the restroom.   
He entered the flat, and was surprised to see the light on in the living room. Silent as a cat he peeked through the door. Brian was asleep on the armchair, head bended on the backrest in what was surely an uncomfortable position. He had a book in one hand, and a cup of cold tea on the coffee table in front of him. It was a strange sight, considering that Brian was always the first of them all to go to bed at night. What was even stranger, though, was the empty couch, usually occupied by their resident drummer who periodically fell asleep on any horizontal surface except the bed. Freddie shrugged, it wasn't a big deal, even peculiar as it was. He walked over his room, which shared with John, and tried to be quite to not wake his roommate – Deaky could be frightening when waked up before his biological clock said it was the right time. Upon entering, Freddie discovered that the room was empty, John's bed still made. Now worried, the singer decided to give a look at the entire flat, and eventually wake Brian up for an explanation. He looked at the room that Brian and Roger shared and noticed that the door was ajar. Freddie peeked in, and his eyes widened. Roger and Deaky were asleep, cuddled together in Roger's bed. The blond hair were still wet, evidence of a recent shower, and he was plastered on the younger man's side, his face hidden between John's neck and shoulder. Deaky's hair too were damp, and the bassist had his arms around the blond man, hugging him tightly.  
Freddie didn't know how long he stayed there, standing at the door and looking at the sleeping men. He felt a strange kind of feeling; certainly Roger could do whatever he wanted, like himself, and the blond surely never held himself back, but that was the first time Rog shagged one of their mutual friends. Hell, not just a “friend”, John was their fucking bassist, for god's sake! Because Freddie had no doubt that the two of them had fucked, all the evidences were pointing to the same explanation.  Freddie didn't really care if Rog and John decided to turn to each other every now and then, but he was slightly worried seeing how much John berated the open relationship business. And to be fair, the singer would have been upset if he had to give up Roger just because of John's narrowness on the matter. 

Anyway, the singer decided that it was too late to think about it at the moment, and surely he was reading too much in what could have only been a cuddle with a friend. The decision to postpone taken, Freddie woke Brian up, the poor lad all cranky already, and went to bed. Tomorrow morning things would have a different light on them. He was optimistic.

  


*

  


Maybe a bit too much optimistic. Freddie woke up quite early, as he was used to, and after a shower the world seemed warm and wonderful. Upon entering the kitchen, however, instead of the usual Brian sitting at the table with a cup of tea and the newspaper, he found Roger. It wasn't common for the blond to be up and about so early in the morning, but not even unheard of. Besides, Roger had clearly just woken up, his hair mussed from sleep and the oversized t-shirt he used as pyjamas wrinkled and half hanging from his shoulder. He looked absolutely glorious. The blond was leaning with his hip against the counter, eyes fixed on the admittedly not exciting view outside their window, deep in thoughts. He didn't seem to notice Freddie entering, and the singer decided to take advantage of that absent-mindedness. His previous night hadn't been satisfactory, Roger was beautiful and Freddie was horny. He sauntered to the blond and hugged him from behind.

“You look positively edible” he murmured to Roger's ear, blowing lightly on his earlobe as he knew it would drive him crazy. Freddie kissed the tender skin of the blond neck, Roger shuddering breath only fuelling more his morning hard on. Roger immediately stiffened.

“Fred...” he whimpered quietly, a sound that no one could ever mistake for turned on, and Freddie stilled his movements. He leaned forward to take a better look of Roger's face. He had his eyes squeezed shut and was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.   
“Rog? Darling, what's the matter?” Freddie asked, a bit concerned. Roger didn't reply, but he wriggled out of his arms.  
“Nothing, just... not in the mood” he answered stiffly, taking a step behind to put some distance between Freddie and himself. The singer didn't understand, Roger was always in the mood! That was one of the things which made him so special. Freddie suddenly remembered the events of the previous night, and felt a wave of annoyance.  
“Seriously, darling? Had too much fun yesterday evening, maybe?” he snapped, crossing his arms theatrically. If Roger wanted to call off their agreement just because John asked him to, Freddie wanted at least hear it from the blond's mouth. Roger's eyes widened, and he paled considerably. 

“What... what do you mean?” he stammered, and Freddie felt viciously victorious. So really, Roger wanted to play dumb? Or maybe he hoped to had time to think about his predicament and choose what he wanted to do with the both of them. Well, Freddie wasn't at the beck and call of anyone, not mattering how pretty Roger was. 

“Just saying, darling, that it's quite sad how one man is able to change your entire way of being in one night” he commented, totally missing how Roger's complexion became ashen. “I mean, maybe you liked...” Freddie planned to go on and tell Roger that if he liked John more than him, or if there was sentiment involved, Freddie was ready to step back and never bother him again, as annoying as it was, but he didn't get to finish. Roger let out a broken sound, his breath suddenly uneven. Freddie's eyes narrowed, he was missing something. Roger looked at him like he never saw him before, a mixture of shame and sadness in his crystal blue eyes.  
“If this is what you think about me, then never bother to approach me again” Roger said, voice icy and shockingly steady giving his condition. Without a glance back, the blond strode out of the room and inside his bedroom, slamming the door shut with enough force to make the door-frame rattle. Freddie was left standing in the kitchen, totally dumbfounded. He didn't understand what the hell happened, but he would find out. As it was true that he was Freddie fucking Mercury.

  


  


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John was slumbering peacefully when the door slammed shut with a loud bang. He jumped, heart pounding.  
“What... what the hell?” he stammered, voice rough from sleep. Roger just waved his hand, unconcerned.

“Sorry, go back to sleep” he answered shortly. He was dressing up hastily, jeans and a sweatshirt, and seemed worn out. John blinked, suddenly awake.

“Where are you going?” he asked the blond, he was worried. Roger wasn't in the condition to go out alone after what he had been through the night before. John felt guilt eating him up. It was all his fault, and he didn't even properly said sorry.   
“Out. Need to think. And smoke” Roger answered, already putting his shoes on. John scrambled out of bed.  
“Wait a minute, I'll come with you” he proposed, he didn't want Roger alone. They didn't have the time to talk about how the blond felt, he had been nearly catatonic for the entire night. Roger made an annoyed noise.  
“I'm going alone, thank you” he replied, and it was clear that for the blond it was final. Roger stormed out of the bedroom, John hot on his heels, still in his pants. The bassist didn't notice Freddie, who was standing at the kitchen door and looked curiously at the scene.  
“Rog, please wait just a minute...” John plea went unheard, Roger was out of the front door a second later, slamming it shut. 

“...hell” John muttered, this went worst than what he thought. He ran an hand through his hair, he needed to wake Brian and make some sort of plan. Something that could help them help Roger. 

“Lovers quarrel?” the unexpected voice made John jump. He spun towards Freddie, leaned on the kitchen door-frame, who looked too cheerful given the current events. John raised an eyebrow.

“Beg you pardon?”. What was Freddie on about? Their singer stood dramatically on his feet and took two step forward.  
“Well, just trying to interpret the situation, darling. Two men sleeping together, then one storming out and the other following him... so clearly ' _désabillé'_ ” he commented lightly, gesturing towards John's almost naked form, and the bassist cringed. What the actual fuck? Was Freddie really suggesting... well, now considering, he could had been fooled, the picture was confounding. John looked better at Freddie, noting the lingering stiffness of his shoulders and his clearly forced neutrality. So it seemed that Freddie did have some degree of interest in with who the blond drummer was fooling around. In other circumstances, John would have jumped on that clearly wrong conclusion to grill the singer about it, if only to make him pay for all the cold shoulders he gave Roger in the past six-or-so months. However, their current predicament was too worrisome to play this game. John took a deep breath. 

“Freddie listen, is not really my call to explain, but...” his tentative of communication was interrupted by the singer, who scoffed loudly.  
“Johnny darling, I must say... I was ready, even if displeased, to give up on everything if there was something between the two of you, but given what happened, I think I will not. No, scratch that, I'm sure I won't!” he ranted, gesturing wildly with his arm. “I don't know what you said to blondie in there, but clearly he doesn't agree. You can't force your way of living sexuality on anyone, dear, and Roger is the last person who would like to be told what to do” he concluded, a small, satisfied, smirk tugging at his lips. John's mind was racing, how could have Freddie come to all that, pathetically wrong, conclusions in less than five hours? And, more important, did Freddie just implied that he saw _him_ , of all people, like a rival to Roger's affection? Because if that was the case, then Freddie was insane! John shook his head, astonished.   
“Fred, I think you misunderstood...” he tried again, holding back incredulous laughters. Then a though flashed through is brain. Roger too upset expression just five minutes ago, the fact that he was already up when John woke and that he was coming from outside the bedroom... John blanched. 

“Freddie... did you say something to Roger?”. 

The singer looked taken aback by the sudden shift of topic, but shrugged.  
“Well yes, darling, we were talking. As friends are prone to do all the time” he answered off-handedly, raising his eyebrows. John made a frustrate gesture.

“Of what did you talk about? Did you dump this same crazed ideas onto him too?” he asked urgently, trying to count all the possible ways in which the hot-headed, surely emotional unstable, blond could have taken the accusations and twisted them in his mind. Oh god, John was ten seconds from having a panic attack. Freddie's eyes narrowed at this.   
“Which 'crazy ideas'? What are you on about?” he demanded back, and John threw up his arms.  
“Holy fucking shit, Fred, answer my god-damned question!” John cried, loud enough to be heard by the entire tenement “What the hell did you tell him?” 

The outburst had the hoped effect, and Freddie's eyes widened in shock. John noted, on background, that he was acting totally out of character, but he didn't give a damn. He had to focus on Roger now, which was who-knows-where, thinking who-knows-what, and fucking alone. John's hands tightened into firsts without him noticing.  
“I only told him that if he had fun last night and wanted to break things off with me, it was okay. Oh and, also, that how he could change in one night by the means of just one man was quite sad, but obviously it's just my humble opinion” Freddie answered annoyed, while crossing his arms in a protective position. John felt as the ground had just crumbled under him. He closed and opened his eyes slowly, counting from ten in his mind.

“Freddie... did you use those exact words with him too?” he said calmly, too calmly in respect of the total storm he had inside. Freddie picked up on his strangely quiet behaviour too, because he shifted awkwardly. 

“What if I did?” he answered testily, and John saw red. That was it, he was going to murder Freddie Mercury right now, _Queen_ be damned. 

“Freddie, you are an idiot. Pray to every deity you can think of that Roger is alright, or this time I will end you for real” John screamed, all his fear, rage and frustration thrown on the same, pained, sentence. With that he stormed out of the room, to get changed. He had to find Roger, and he had to do it now. 

  


*

  


Less than five minutes later John found himself on the pavement of their street, the cold weather freezing his hands and nose. He bundled himself better in his thick coat, burying half of his face in the collar. He hoped that Roger was okay, he didn't remember seeing him take any jacket but he wasn't sure. At the moment John was on a blind search, Roger could have been literally anywhere and the bassist didn't have a clue. He took the right side, deciding that if he was upset he would have liked the tranquillity of the suburbs rather than the bustling city centre. He walked briskly, eyeing back and forth between the two sides of the road and hoping to be lucky.

The silence of the early morning left him time to think. To be honest with himself, he knew that he had been unfair with Freddie. The singer didn't know anything about the events of the previous night, and even if John could be rightfully angry at him to be able to push every single one of Roger's buttons, even without knowing them, he also knew that Freddie was seldom cruel on purpose. And their discussion that morning held other, interesting, revelations too, first of all the fact that Freddie seemed really worked up about John and Roger's hypothetical shag. Freddie himself was the one flaunting his “open relationship” affair and all the advantages that it held at every given moment, even to the ones which really didn't need to know (John and Brian in primis). So what now, the rules of the game where different for Roger? Or was he just worried that John – and wasn't that all in itself completely ridiculous? - would be able to steal the blond from him? John could understand where that line of thought came from, he wasn't exactly discreet in his disapproval of his bandmates 'relationship', but bloody hell John was straight, for fuck's sake! This time, in the emptiness of the street, John let himself giggle at the thought. Freddie could be really oblivious sometimes, so much that John felt urged to call him dumb more often than not.

John rounded another corner, heading further into the suburban neighbourhood. So far, no luck on locating the drummer, the next street as empty as the first one. John stopped at the pedestrian signal to regain his breathing, in his hast to find Roger he had nearly run all the way to his current position. Had he totally got the wrong way? Maybe Roger wasn't just walking and chain-smoking without an aim like he thought before, but was looking for a place familiar and comforting? John listed all the places in which Roger usually felt safe, but quickly ruled them all out. The stall at Kensington Market too much intertwined with memories of Freddie, the one who John was positive had upset him this morning, his favourite pub a too vivid remainder of the night before, and the park in which Roger was usual spending lazy Sundays afternoons too much cold in this season. Perhaps trying with locations in which was unusual seeing the blond? Those were easy to know, the University Library and the coffee shop in which worked that crazy lass he dated last year – the foolish woman still trying to 'win him back', poor deluded soul. Considering that Roger would have known that someone (aka: John) was surely going to follow him, maybe the Library idea wasn't so bad. After another half-hearted look at the street in front of him, John turned and walked back, heading to the blond university premises.

  


John entered the silent hallway of the Library, completely empty on a Sunday morning. He briskly walked to the receptionist, a bored-looking middle-aged woman with horribly bleached hair. He coughed a little to gain her attention.

“Excuse me madam, did you see a blond guy coming in this morning? As high as me, blue eyes, probably more than moody?” he asked hopefully, giving the woman his best version of Roger's winning smile, the one female cannot resist, and probably failing, giving the unimpressed look of the librarian. She shook her head. 

“You're the first one this morning” she explained plainly, her interest returning on the magazine opened on the counter. John sighed, thanked her and returned on his way. It was terribly frustrating because Roger couldn't have disappeared but London was a fairly big city. 

Point was, John felt guilty. He couldn't think of anything but the last night, of how Roger had practically sacrificed himself for John's well-being. And while that thought filled John's heart with overwhelming warmth, knowing how far Roger was willing to go to keep him safe was also scaring. John was grateful for Brian's blessed appearance which stopped things from escalating into an even bigger mess than this already was, but he couldn't stop thinking about the what ifs. What would have happened if Brian had not arrived? Would have Roger just silently stood there and take whatever the shitty arseholes asked from him? Would he... would he let himself been  _raped_ to save John? Not that what had really happened was less terrible then the hypothetical violence, because it was a sexual assault nonetheless, but in John's opinion what could have occurred was exponentially worse. 

So yes, scared and... guilty. Because even if Roger, after his shower last night, reassured John at the best as he could that it wasn't his fault, the bassist couldn't shake off the feeling that, if he hadn't been there or, even better, had he been stronger, all this wouldn't have happened. And he was afraid that, as soon as Roger realised that the blame, at least partially, fell on John, he would lose him forever. As a friend, as a confidant and, in the worst case scenario, as a bandmate. John couldn't even think about such a possibility, but didn't know what to do. Because last night happened, and he couldn't rewind the clock and change the past. He only hoped that Brian could help Roger, if the blond decided that John wasn't suitable to be a trustworthy friend any more. After all, what had John done while two men were basically brutalizing him? Stood there, crying like a pussy, watching the scene took place before him. Suddenly, storming after Roger didn't seem like a good idea any more. Maybe the blond needed space not only from Freddie, but from John too.

John blinked his eyes, now wet with barely held back tears, and bundled himself more inside his coat, feeling a particular brand of cold that had nothing to do with weather. With a last look around the university complex, he exhaled slowly and began his way home.

  


  


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He was waked up by the yelling that came from outside his bedroom. Brian rubbed his eyes tiredly, and blinked. Apparently he wasn't in his bedroom, if the hideous Gonzalez poster (a very appreciated gift from Roger, that Freddie threats to destroy once a week) over the headboard was any clue. He was indeed in Freddie and John's room, sprawled without a care on John's bed. The yelling became more intense and then the door of the adjacent room slammed shut. Less than five minutes later, the front door suffered the same fate, and the flat returned silent. Brian sighed. His instincts told him to shut his eyes again and pretend to be dead, but the slamming of cabinets and muffled yelps of rage coming from the kitchen were too much to handle for his – admittedly too kind – heart, so Brian braces himself for a pretty bad scene and got up.  
Entering the kitchen, he was welcomed by a bad-tempered Freddie, wearing only his dressing gown, that was trying without success to clean up a broken mug, tea dripping from the counter to the wet floor. Brian sighed again, that would be a long day.

“Bad morning?” he asked, taking over the cleaning duty without missing a beat. Freddie stood up and moved away, letting the tall guitarist work in peace. 

“Darling, you have _no idea_ ” he stated peevishly, crossing his arms over himself for good measure. The two stayed silent after that, Brian cleaning and Freddie staring in the distance, obviously deep in thought. Brian threw away the mug, wiped the floor and put the kettle on. While waiting for the water to boil, Brian walked around the flat, noting that they were missing not just one, but both their flatmates. Considering that Freddie seemed a bit more relaxed, but not exactly in a good mood, bribing him with a good cuppa would have been the safest choice. Brian went all out on that, using his precious flavoured bland that he usually kept to himself, deaf to the demands of the other three lunatics he shared the flat with. He saw that Freddie had noticed the open blister on the counter, and he cheered inside. When the tea was ready he offered a mug to Freddie, indicating with a gesture to sit down with him. Freddie huffed, but took a chair nonetheless, and Brian prepared for his petty psychology session. 

“So, what happened?” he asked without preamble, he knew those were absolutely useless when Freddie was involved. The singer scoffed, eyes looking at something behind Brian.

“I haven't the foggiest, dear” was the reluctant answer. Brian stayed silent, fixing Freddie with a pointed look. The singer crumpled after less than a minute. 

“I really don't know! We were talking, and then he seemed about to cry, and then he stormed off and the other screamed and me and...” Brian spluttered his mouthful of tea, taken aback, and stopped Freddie in his track. 

“Hold on, you're not making any sense” he interrupted, “Who seemed about to cry? Roger?”. And wasn't that a frightening thought? Brian hadn't forgotten what had occurred the night before, and the fact that they were, figuratively, on thin ice around the blond. He cursed himself, they should have been more careful to not let Roger and Freddie alone this morning. Brian looked at Freddie, noting that the singer was as stiff as a board, eyes narrowed. He tried for a reassuring smile. 

“How you knew he was Roger? What I'm missing here?” Freddie asked menacingly. Brian, swallowed, he wasn't sure it was his place to tell. 

“Freddie... I think this would be a better topic of discussion for you and Roger” he said diplomatically. Freddie eyes widened and then, hell broke loose. 

“Are you fucking kidding me? Seriously? This is exactly what John told me. I _tried_ to talk to Roger about it, and you know what? _He was about to cry_! So tell me what the hell is going on or god help me, Brian, I...” but Brian wasn't listening any more, too concerned on what exactly Freddie thought was the point on discussion here. Because he was fairly sure that the singer knew anything about the violence Roger experienced in that alley. The guitarist took a deep breath, before shushing Freddie once more. 

“Freddie, do you know what happened last night?” he asked slowly, trying to understand. It was possible, even if unlikely, that Roger had explained at least a tenth of what happened, even just to not let the singer in the dark. Freddie, at that, scoffed louder. 

“If I know? Of course, darling, it's not that hard to guess. However, I would have appreciated if Roger was enough of a man to tell me to my face, instead of playing it dumb. And John? He didn't even addressed it, only worried about his oh-so-precious “boyfriend” and running after him _even_ if he himself is the one who usually gets annoyed at Roger when he's being a brat” he ranted, and Brian could not have been more confused. 'Playing it dumb'? 'Boyfriend?' What the hell did Freddie thought happened, that John and Roger shagged? Brian blinked, twice, and then understanding washed over him. Of course Freddie would have jumped to the most unlikely conclusion! Brian couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips, Freddie was an idiot. Wasn't it clear for everyone looking that Roger was head over heels in love with the singer, even if the blond didn't know it himself? Brian was sure that, if Freddie had given up the story of the 'open relationship', Roger would have gladly given up the hordes of girls (and boys) to be exclusively with him. And the fact that Freddie was so worked up about losing the blond told the guitarist that the sentiment was mutual. What a couple of blind, emotionally deficient, morons. 

“What are you smiling at? I don't think it's a fun fact, dear” Freddie's addressing bought Brian back at the present moment. Brian shook his head, still smiling. 

“No, it's clearly not. So, Freddie, why don't _you_ man up and tell Roger that you don't want to lose him, hm?” he asked, and Freddie's face lose all his colour in one go.  
“W-what the hell are you talking about?” he stammered “I'm not in love with Roger, that's absurd!” Freddie argued. Brian tilted his head to the side.  
“Never said you are” he answered, he was definitely having fun. If Freddie alone wasn't able to admit his feelings, Brian was ready to help him out. Freddie opened and closed his mouth trice, vaguely resembling an oversized fish, and Brian chuckled. He was hopeless sometimes. Suddenly Freddie stood up, his chair crashing behind him. Brian startled.  
“I don't know what made you think _that_ , darling, but you're wrong. Now, if you excuse me, I have a song to finish. If you don't mind...” and Freddie was out of the kitchen, and inside his bedroom, in three long strides. Brian, suddenly alone in the room, blinked. Did Freddie... Did Freddie fucking Mercury just _run away from an argument_? 

  


*

  


Giving that Freddie seemed happy to just stay the entirety of the day bundled up in his room, under the pretence of “doing music”, Brian decided to clean up their flat while waiting for his two bandmates to come home from wherever they were gone. Brian couldn't deny being worried, and used the repetitiveness of the cleaning process to calm down, finding it meditative. Apparently, Freddie had gone and said something that made Roger feel bad and, by inference, Deaky too. Given that Freddie was usually a moron with zero self-control... all of that had the chance to end in a disaster. Brain could only hope that the two missing friends were at least together, because if he wasn't keen on leaving Roger alone on a normal day, under those circumstances he felt like increasing his supervision tenfold.

Brian had just moved to the bathroom, after a good hour and a half of increasingly stressed musings, when he heard the front door opening. He bolted to the living room, where he encountered the sad and worn out face of John. The brunet sighed.

“I cannot find him anywhere. Brian, I'm worried”. The guitarist's shoulders dropped, there went his hopes. 

“Not your fault, Deaky, if everything I heard is true” he offered meekly. If one was to blame, there, it was Freddie, even if he couldn't really be angry with their singer. Freddie didn't know. Yet. 

Brian guided John to the kitchen table, making him sit down and putting the kettle on. Brian was a man on a mission, and his psychologist role wasn't finished for the day. He knew it came from being the only rational human being in the house (giving that John was out of the game, this time, and usually didn't give a fuck), but the awareness of the fact didn't make it less difficult to handle. When the tea was ready, he poured two cups of the special bland (he had a too good heart) and put one in front of John. Then he sat down in front of him, mimicking the same position he held not more than two hours ago with the singer. What a day.

“So. Wanna talk about it?” Brian tried, knowing that John was a lot more difficult to make open up than Freddie. To give credit to his thought, Deaky pressed the cup to his lips quickly, burning his tongue with the too hot tea. He let out a faint yelp, that made Brian chuckle. The bassist gave him a dark look. 

“No, I don't” he answered, and Brian almost rolled his eyes. However, living with the bassist for so long made him aware of the need of strategies. The one he planned to use was a bit of a dick move, but desperate times... 

“It's not for satisfying an unhealthy curiosity of mine, John, I'm not that cruel. It's to help Roger”. 

Brian saw the horrified expression that flashed on Deaky's features, and the consequent crumbling of his resolve. The bassist could be seen as cold and indifferent most of the time, giving his laid down attitude and his dry and sassy comments, but when you got to know him well, he was a sweet and caring boy. John looked to his left, still sipping his tea. Brian waited.

“It... It was my fault, Brian. What happened... what happened last night. And I'm worried that Roger is more pissed at me than at Freddie” he began with a soft voice. The cryptic answer didn't help Brian in the slightest. 

“How was any of that your fault, Deaky?” he inquired, a bit more worried than before. It appears that Roger wasn't the only one in dire need of a serious talk, there. John shuddered, still not looking at him. 

“He... he threatened me. And Roger stopped fighting back.” he whispered. Brian inhaled sharply, that wasn't what he expected. Did that mean... 

“And if you didn't arrived... I don't know what could have happened” John went on, eyes slightly glazed. Brian exhaled, that was worst than he thought. Still...

“It wasn't your fault, John. You couldn't do anything to prevent it” Brian argued, John wasn't the one that made the threat and neither a willing accomplice. He needed the bassist to understand that simple fact. John suddenly turned to look at him, cheeks red and eyes wild. 

“I couldn't do anything, exactly! I should have, Brian, he was going to _rape_ him! No, wait a minute... he _fucking did_! And you know what's the worst thing? Roger came back for me!” he screamed, and Brian winced. Those were a lot of information to take at the same time. Brian felt dizzy. He tried to section the sentence, there were clearly some facts more worrisome than others, if that could be possible. 

“Does Roger need to go to the hospital?” was the first thing he rationalised, trying to not think about the implication. John calmed down, the rage leaving his body as suddenly as it came. He sighed. 

“No, I... I don't think so. I mean, it was just... just a blowjob” he answered, shivering at his own words. Brian grimaced, and nodded. 

“Okay, good, that's... well, shit” he rambled. He had had what he asked for, he shouldn't regret it now, he knew. However, sometimes ignorance is better than knowledge. Again, rationalise.  
So Roger apparently had came back to help John, but that had backfired because the assailants managed to restrain both, and then there was the threat part and the consequent violence. Brian could had never guessed. Considering he now had all the information he needed, and that John was on the verge of a crying crisis - or a panic attack, Brian wasn't sure - the guitarist decided that the discussion, at least for him, could end there. He made to stand up, but John began talking. 

“I'm afraid, Brian. He has all the reasons to... to blame me. To _hate_ _me_ ” John admitted, still speaking with that soft whispering that made Brian's heart felt heavy. John's kept his gaze linked to the table, his finger trailing on the crack Roger managed to do in a fit of blind rage some months ago. The bassist looked up then, fixing Brian with tearful and scared eyes. 

“I can't lose him”. 

That was the clue for Brian, who quickly stood up and moved to John, enveloping the younger in a comforting hug. Deaky began sobbing, all the weight of the last twelve hours crashing down on him. Brian held him tightly and waited for the storm to pass.

“You won't John. Roger loves you, he proved it last night. He doesn't blame you, John, no one does” he murmured quietly, and John shivered, clinging more on Brian's shirt. The guitarist caressed the brunet head, letting him vent. That was a bigger mess than what he thought, and the recover would be a long and difficult road. 

  


  


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He was angry. He was so, so angry that he could kill. How he dared? Roger walked briskly, taking a random path with the only aim to get the fuck away from that house. He lit a cigarette, then a second one in less than a minute. He passed a trash can and he kicked it, satisfied at the resounding crashing sound that followed. He was probably lucky that it was early on a Sunday morning, but he didn't registered the emptiness of the street. His turmoil was all inside.  
After the trash can and the two smokes he felt a bit better, his head less fuzzy. In his mind, Freddie's early words replayed in loop, making him want to throw up. How could him even  _imply_ he liked... Roger had to stop walking, his legs felt like jelly. He leaned on the nearest wall, letting his head fall down. Holy shit, it was just morning and he already felt like having a drink. No, scratch that, maybe getting smashed was even a better idea. 

Roger gived up on staying upright, and he let himself slid down the wall. Sat on the pavement, hugging his knees, he rested his head on his arms. In his mind his thoughts were racing, and he was unable to make them stop. He felt like his head was going to explode.

Why would Freddie think that? He knew, in the back of his mind, that Freddie didn't know, couldn't know any of what happened last night. Ehe, last night. That was another matter entirely. Roger wasn't sure he had the strength to recall those moments, if he had to be entirely honest with himself. And that was another interesting thing to meditate about. How much did he want to be honest with himself? Because Roger was sure that he had to take everything in baby steps, if he wanted to keep at least half of his sanity.

One thing he knew for sure. He saw John that morning too, sweet and caring John that ran after him in only his pants to be sure he was okay, and that Roger dismissed as he was an annoying mosquito. John seemed alright, even if upset. That, Roger thought, mattered. Even if now he was sitting on a shitty pavement, on a shitty Sunday morning, feeling like he needed a long bath in a caustic cleanser to feel clean in his own skin, the knowledge that John was alright still felt more important to him. And Roger knew that, if he had found himself in that alley again, his choice would have been the same.

That point made clear, Roger knew he needed to buy Brian a huge present. The reason behind it being obvious, no need to inquire more on the what ifs. Freddie, though... that had hurt. Had hurt so much that Roger, after the anger outburst that was his usual reaction to whatever was able to pierce his metaphorical armour, felt worryingly empty. Like an enormous black hole inside his chest had adsorbed all the good feelings, leaving only hurt and despair in his wake.

Roger stood up and started walking again. He didn't have a destination, just the aim to stop thinking already. Maybe the idea of storming out like that hadn't been a smart choice. Being alone, without nothing to do and no one to talk to forced him to think, and he couldn't think of anything but the last twelve hours, and that was driving him crazy. On the other end, staying home would have signified talk to someone, John or Brian, about what happened, and he wasn't ready for that. Honestly, he wasn't sure he would ever be ready. He rubbed his temples, he felt the telltale of a massive headache already. He didn't know what to do.

He raised his head and looked around, unsure of where he was, and a small smile broke on his lips. He didn't know where to go, or what to do with himself, but his legs brought him where he needed to be. He turned left and went up the steps of the small tenement, ringing the 4F bell, not caring about the hour. A sleepy voice answered after only two rings.

“Yeah? Who is it?” 

“Claire, it's me. Can I come in?” 

  


*

  


It was dusk when Roger said goodbye to his little sister, and took the way home. Clare was, as always, his personal sunshine, and even if she understood with just looking at him that he was far from alright, she did respect his choice to not talk about it. As a result, they spent a wonderful day just laying down, smoking and listening to good music as they were used to do when back in Truro, moments that felt like another life to Roger. He was lucky that Clare's  roommate went home for the weekend, he figured, or probably he wouldn't have intruded so much on his sister privacy. She was adamant on making him eat something, even if Roger was feeling so nauseous that managed only crackers and tea, much to his sister dismay. 

When he arrived at his flat, he stopped. How he wanted to handle this? Being with Clare helped not to think, and have to pretend he was perfectly fine, if just a bit tired, was difficult but not unbearable. Should him just forget everything happened and go on with his life? It sounded like a plan to him. Only he knew that his friends would probably try to make him speak about his feelings, or some other psychological crap if he knew Brian well, and that was definitely not in his to-do list. So, what approach to take? He could enter the flat silent as cat and tiptoeing into his bedroom, hoping everyone will get the hint that he didn't want to be disturbed ( _ah ah, dream, Roger_ ), or he could just barge him and talk about his day like everything was normal and peachy, in his usual style. Roger nodded to himself, he could do it. Or, he better do it 'cause that was his place to sleep and live, and if he didn't make clear on day one how he wanted things working about that particular experience, he wasn't sure he could make it until next week. He hated to just run away to Truro again, after all. 

Decision taken, he went up the stairs and opened the flat's front door, without pausing to think, with all his remaining resolve. He just managed to turn the key that the door was opened form the inside, and Roger found himself very near the face of a very concerned-looking Brian.

“Where the hell were you? We were worrying sick!” he screamed, and Roger flinched back out of reflex. Immediately Brian took a step back himself, the anger disappeared in favour of a shameful expression. Roger blinked, confused. 

“I'm sorry, I didn't meant to scare you... just, well, where were you?” he asked again, in a definitely more civil tone. Roger let the words sink in. Scared? Who the hell was scared? He felt annoyance climbing up his body, what the hell were they thinking? That he suddenly had become a frail, unstable baby in constant need of being treated with white gloves? He wasn't made of glass, and he didn't need anyone pity, thank you very much. He let the annoyance shown on his traits. 

“I'm not scared, you just surprised me. And I was at Clare's” he answered smoothly, entering the flat. He needed a smoke. He waved at Deaky, which was looking at them half hid by the living room door-frame, seeming almost afraid to come near Roger. The blond raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Hey Deaks. Everything fine?” he questioned, and John visibly relaxed. The bassist left the living room then, approaching him like he was a wild beast. 

“Yeah, I am... and you? We didn't know where were you, we thought the worst” John murmured, still maintaining a distance. Roger frowned. 

“What do you mean? I'm perfectly fine, see? I was just visiting my sister” he replied, he didn't like the atmosphere of the house. He looked between his two bandmates, who were still looking at him like he was a ghost.  
“I am! What do I have to do to prove it to you, uh?” he remarked when no one spoke. The two looked at each other, unconvinced. Roger sighed. 

“You didn't say nothing... didn't call or left a note” Brian explained, voice now much more irritated than concerned. “And John was out all morning trying to track you down” he added, fixing the blond with a stern look. Roger felt himself blush, he had actually stormed off without a word and didn't give his whereabouts to anyone. It honestly escaped his mind. He looked at the bassist, which was currently founding the floor incredibly attractive. Roger felt like a shitty friend. 

“I... I'm sorry guys, really. Deaky...”. The brunet looked up, and Roger could see the telltale of tears on his slightly puffy eyes. 

“Oh, John... come here” Roger opened his arms, and in a second he had an armful of bassist tightly clung on him. The blond hugged him back with all his strength. He felt John's hiccups but didn't commented, only holding him until the bassist finally calmed down. All the time Brian watched them with a small smile on his lips. When John was able to put himself under control he lifted his head from Roger shoulder, still maintaining his arms around the blond. Roger smiled at him, receiving a one-million watt smile in return. Brian chuckled, and Roger felt everything would be alright in the end. 

“What about some dinner, then?” asked Brian, and Roger's heart missed a beat. Suddenly, a wave on nausea washed over him, and he barely contained a retching. His bandmates immediately noticed. 

“Rog, you alright? Are you feeling sick?” John asked, taking the blond's head in his hands to look better at his face. Brian too approached the two, with a concerned frown. Roger felt dizzy, they were too close. He blinked his eyes quickly, his gaze a bit flurry, and covered his mouth when the need to be sick became too much. He took a step back, sliding his arms away from John. He felt claustrophobic, he needed space. 

“No, I'm okay, just... not hungry. I'm tired, I'll go to sleep. See you tomorrow” he stammered, not convincingly even to his own ears, and took a run to his bedroom. Thankfully his friends didn't follow him. He closed the door and rested his back on it, sliding down to the floor. He didn't know what the hell happened, nor how to stop it, and that just added to the panic he was feeling. He took some raspy breaths, leaning his head on the hard surface behind him, and tried not to think. 

After what seemed to him like forever, his breath calmed down. He remained sat there, eyes fixed on the floor, mind blank. Fearing for tomorrow.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo... what do you think?  
> Comments and kudos are the life of this pseudo-writer! Thank you for reading :)


	3. Finding A Way To Cope With This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie finds out that something isn't right. Brian has to know. Deaky is crying. Roger... he tries not to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry! I didn't update for two months... BUT my exams went well, and now I have a bit more time to write.   
> I hope someone is still waiting for this fic to be finished :) 
> 
> Also, I made some researches for this chapter, but I'm no expert. So, if you feel like pointing out something that is totally incorrect, please do! 
> 
> As always, I'm not a native english... if you spot something horrible, let me know. 
> 
>  
> 
> Before the chapter... Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos, they make the life of a writer!   
> Thank you, thank you all!

With long strikes he got to his room, practically running from Brian. He was able to breath only when he heard the comforting slamming of the door behind him.

_What the fuck just happened?_

Freddie fell with his back on the bed, on still unmade sheets, and sighed deeply. Brian could be annoyingly perceptive when he wasn't lost on some constellation inside his head. It was clear even to himself that he felt something  _more_ for Roger than simple friendship, thank you very much, but calling it 'love' was giving to his feelings a bit to much credit, in his opinion. It was surely easier calling it lust and be done with it. Not that Roger would care if there was a difference, the blond too occupied in finding other people to shag every night to give attention to a detail so trivial like that one anyway. Or was he wrong? 

Freddie shut his eyes tightly, willing his brain to just  _stop_ . He was overthinking it, and if he learned one thing in his life it was that overthinking was unhealthy. Better do some music instead, surely a better occupation of his time. At least  _he_ was productive, unlike  _some_ other band-members that preferred to waste precious hours to analyse Freddie's lov -  _lust_ ,  _dammit_ \- interests or, worse, to  _shag_ each other like a pair of shameful  _cheaters_ ... 

Okay, what happened to stop overthinking it? Freddie shook his head and took a sip of his special blended tea, thankful that he had had the presence of mind to take his cup with him in his hasty retreat. Even if, at the moment, he would had much more preferred a glass of vodka instead. Or even the whole bottle.

He tried some keys at the piano, but he felt like his head was empty. Well, empty of creative melodies, really, and that because it was so  _full_ with other, shimming, thoughts that were circling each other like a wannabe circus and all of that was making him nauseous. He took another sip, and then a mouthful, of tea, the bloody thing was good. He could almost think about thanking Brian, if he hadn't been this annoyed at him to have destroyed his peace of mind. 

After another aborted attempt at the piano, he gave up. It wasn't a good day for him, from the very beginning. With Roger refusing him. And really, it shouldn't have been that big of a deal, Roger was allowed to not feeling in the mood every now and then. He was human, after all, and if he had a good fuck just hours prior... with  _John_ , of all people... 

Freddie gritted his teeth, and swore some unkind words in his head directed to the bassist. And to the drummer. And to that fucking poodle too, he could hear him fussing about the flat in one of his anxious-induced cleaning missions. Fuck them all.

Freddie returned to the bed, flopping down on it, defeated. The really annoying thing of all this mess was that Brian was  _right_ . As fucking usual, he felt obliged to point out. He didn't want to lose Roger, nor as a friend with benefits, neither as a friend  _period._ And to obtain even the easier of those options, even if not the most favourable for himself, he would had to settle that disaster of a conversation he had with Rog that very morning. The blond seemed distraught and, given the reaction of his other two flatmates, it was probably something Freddie had said that had upset him so much as to induce him to storm off like an hurricane. Freddie couldn't exactly pinpoint  _what_ he said so terrible to set off the infamous Roger Taylor's temper, per se, but couldn't even help curse himself for being always cryptical in his accusations. Or always, honestly. He crafted a very refined and flamboyant persona for himself, with studied gestures of grandeur and a fancy way of posing, that reflected on his every features, language not excluded. It wasn't fair of him to dump on others the blame of misunderstanding if he wasn't clear in the beginning. 

But what he was supposed to do? Go to Roger and say 'I can't stand the idea of not shagging you, sorry if I was insensible, can John and me both share?'? That would go so well, surely.

Moreover he was, slowly but surely, beginning to think that he was, maybe, a bit jealous of all the people that seemed to effortlessly float around Roger everywhere he went. Sure, blondie was a looker, he was aware himself of his charm. And despite this he found himself more and more often interrupting the flow, be with a coy gesture in the blond's direction, or even with bolder moves which have the sole purpose of taking him away from his last conquest. Only for, just a night after, leave him alone in the middle of the dance floor to flirt with someone else. So much for the 'friends with benefits' attitude, really. It seemed that John, in all of his twenty-years-old wisdom, wasn't so wrong in his accusations. Another thing to file in his to-think-about list that, in less that three hours, was becoming as long as their flat bills account. Not exactly a comforting thought.

*

He was retrieved from his musing by the front door opening, and the hushed conversation that followed. Freddie pricked up his ears, interested. He had little hope that Roger would be the one returned home, because the blond usually needed more than a couple of hours to cool off. But he still wanted to know what the hell John had to say about the curious scene he had witnessed that morning. Surely John had pissed Rog off at least as much as Freddie had, to deserve the silent treatment from the blond. Roger was awfully protective of the bassist, probably given that John was the only one younger than the drummer in their circle. Or maybe it was because the blond had feelings for the bassist, but he had never acted on them prior to the night before. Freddie shook his head, that was not a thought he liked to pursue, thank you very much.

By the sounds coming from outside, it seemed that Brian had used the same technique of the special bland on John too, the rotter. He  _knew_ how much they liked his tea, and he never failed to use it as a bargaining chip. Freddie made here and there a vow to steal it at the first occasion, to hide it, never to be found. Serves the bastard right. 

His bandmates voices were too low to discern words, but Freddie could hear the worried undertones. Brian was interrogating Deaky, probably on the reason why their flat was clear of drummers, and Freddie wanted to know too. He silently got out of bed and crawled near the door, opening it just a crack to have better acoustic. Turns out it was useless, because a moment later John was screaming.

“... _he fucking did_! And you know what's the worst thing? Roger came back for me!”

Freddie furrowed his brows, confused. He did what? Who? Roger? The singer strained his ears for more, but after the outburst they went on with a more civil tone, probably courtesy of Brian, the boy couldn't stand loud arguments. Brian voice, however, was frantic, Freddie could tell. And John... John felt just heartbroken. Did something horrible happened to John? That could explain some of the unusual dynamics that had destroyed their peaceful weekend routine, really. Like John and Roger hugging in the middle of the pub, or they sleeping together... Or perhaps it was just wistful thinking on Freddie's part, his poor brain, in denial over a simple shag, trying to arrange the puzzle pieces in a different shape only to maintain open the possibility of a future intimate rendezvous with Roger. And wasn't it just sad that he preferred the idea of a traumatized John over the one of a more simple, and less worrisome, horizontal tango between his two friends? He clearly wasn't thinking straight.

Again hushed tones, and now Freddie wanted to understand. He opened the door a little wider, and slipped carefully out of the room, his bare feet helping to be as silent as a cat. He couldn't just barge in there and demand what was going on, obviously. That was, by all means, a private conversation, and Freddie didn't want his friends to surprise him eavesdropping. Quietly, he took a step in the kitchen direction. And he heard John sobbing, Brian trying to soothe him with soft murmuring. The younger's crying went a bit louder, then muffled again, and Freddie knew that their guitarist had hugged him against his chest. Freddie felt a bit better, at least John wasn't alone in a difficult time. So, at the end, it wasn't wistful thinking  _at all_ . Something happened yesterday night, and not something as joyful as exchanging love confessions. 

“Hush, John, he doesn't blame you. No one does” he heard Brian saying, in that soft voice usually reserved to healing badgers at the animal shelter. Of course no one blamed John, poor darling. Whatever happened was not in the slightest John's fault, the victim was never to blame. Why would John think so? 

And then it dawned on Freddie, and he felt anger creep inside like molten lava. Did  _Roger_ blame John for whatever happened to the younger? 

Freddie heard chairs moving in the kitchen, and he quickly went inside his room, shutting it quietly. Again, not a good idea to be found standing there like a creep. However, he had to do something, he couldn't leave the situation as it was. John was hurting, and what kind of an asshole friend would Freddie be if he left him grieving alone? And Roger, what the hell was he thinking? John needed all the love from the people near him, why the hell would him storm off just because Freddie misunderstood what happened? He could have explained, and spare everyone involved this unpleasant qui pro quo that surely went out of proportions.

Decision taken, Freddie felt better. He was going to exit his moping sanctuary, as John usually defined their shared room, sit beside Deaky and make him explain what happened. He was going to hug him and console him, and then, when Roger finally would get home, he was going to hear an earful on Freddie's opinion about his behaviour of the morning.

And then, with love and attention, John would get better, and they will be fine. Yes, everything was going to be fine. Freddie wouldn't take it otherwise.

 

 

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 

When John finally calmed down enough to breath of his own, Brian felt at a loss. He didn't know how to make John feel better, not without having Roger here to tell the bassist what he needed to hear. And speaking of Roger...

Brian didn't like being clueless. It was a sensation he seldom felt, not to brag, the one of not knowing what he was supposed to say, or how to act. He was smart, he knew, but it wasn't just that. He was usually prepared, having read books and gained knowledge in a vast amount of topics. He was, usually, the one suggesting the right word or the better solution of a problem. It was his role in their household, as well as in the band, and not being able to fulfil it was making him worried. John was lost on that account, trapped in a dangerous loop of self-blaming that wasn't going away soon by the look he was sporting. Freddie was still trying to sort his emotions out, and that was going to take some time if the guitarist knew him well. And Roger... he was who knows where. Probably spiralling in a even worse loop of thoughts than John, and that could have horrible consequences. Brian could only pray that his blond friend was alright.

In the light of his lack of knowledge, Brian had only one solution: gain some.

 

“John, I'll go out. See you later”. 

The brunet looked up from the carpet that was studying until a second ago, eyes expectant.

“You know where to find Rog?” 

Brian hated crushing his hopes like that but, sadly, he had no idea.

“No, but... I have an idea. To help” he explained, trying to not elaborate further. It would be terrible if he wouldn't find anything, at the end of the day. He collected his shoes and coat. 

“Freddie's in your room, he said to 'make music'” he commented, sarcasm clear in every word, “I'll try to get home before Roger” he added, without dwelling too much on the fact that neither of them knew for sure _if_ Roger would come home, or in which state. They were going to deal with it when that happens, no need to fret over it since now. With a last wave to John, Brian exited the front door. 

 

He wasn't sure where was the best place to ask for information about a sensible topic as the one he had to resolve, so he went firstly where knowledge lived. Or, in other terms, the London library. Call him old-fashioned, but Brian was sure that, if you needed to learn something, then someone else before you surely had written a book about it.

With this granitic certainty, he approached the reception.

Maybe he should have been prepared for a fiasco, because he headed straight on one.

 

“Books about the after-effect of a sexual assault? Love, I don't think there's any”. 

At least the receptionist looked sorry to not be able to help. She addressed him to the criminal science section, and suggested him to take his 'girlfriend' to a doctor, because 'love, things like that can destroy a woman, no matter how much she's strong on the outside. She'll need all the love a partner has to give'. Which was, removed from the context, a pretty good advice.

He could picture himself, supported by Deaky, trying to drag an hissing Roger to a doctor to 'talk about what happened', with Freddie watching from the sideline because 'I'm not in love with Roger, that's absurd'.

A good advice indeed.

It turned out that not even the criminal science section had anything to offer. Brian entertained himself with a Cambridge Department report, with the promising title 'sexual offences', but to no results. Just a long and detailed record about sexual assaults crimes, treated by an investigative point of view. There were only some lines about the consequences for the victims, and most of them treating the physical consequences only. After the fourth mention of gonorrhoea Brian shut the book close, feeling dizzy. He hadn't really thought about all the possible sexual diseases that could be transferred during a rape. And he didn't really want to think about them, to be honest.

Maybe he should drag Roger to a doctor, just to be on the safe side.

 

He exited the library without a real aim, the receptionist bidding him goodbye with a pitying look. Brian felt even more lost than before. Where to, now?

He sat on a bench just a street over, to laid out a plan. So, every sexually assaulted person, being them male or female, had to go see a doctor at some point. Immediately, if there's penetration involved, or after, if... well, for all the reasons he had read in that horrifying book and that he didn't need to recall, thank you very much. So, reasonably, the health care system would know how Brian should have to act. At least medically speaking. It wasn't much, but was his best bet. With a suffering sigh, Brian stood up again and began walking. Destination, the hospital.

 

*

 

The hall of the hospital was, obviously, crowded by people in need of medical assistance. It was reasonable that the staff wouldn't be polite to a guy that needed just information for a case that didn't even concern himself. So Brian sat in a corner, holding for dear life his ticket, watching everyone in the waiting room enter before him. T he poor girl at the reception didn't even know how to define his case, deciding to give him a white code and telling him to sit down, the 'not be in the way' implicit but very much intended. 

After what he estimated were at least four hours, a middle-aged woman in a blue lab coat called his number, and Brian was positive he never felt so happy to see a doctor in his life. He followed the woman in a small office, sitting down on the chair in front of her. She situated herself at the desk chair and opened a paper, writing down something on it.

“Brian Harold May, born in Twickenham, 19th July 1947?” she asked, all business. Brian nodded, unsure if he could ask a question or not. She scribbled something down on the paper. 

“Good, now fill this module, please, and you'll be received by Dr. Brown”. Again Brian just nodded, taking the paper from her. He decided to open his mouth only when he saw he was supposed to compile a certificate for a visit. He shook his head. 

“Hum... sorry, ma'am, but I'm not here to be visited” he began, immediately wanting to slap himself because it was a bit suspicious, with him being in _an hospital_. The woman glared at him, and he hastened to explain. 

“I mean, I have to see a doctor, just not for myself”. Great job, Brian. She now looked just confused, as well as pissed off. He sounded like a nutcase, really. The woman seemed ready to kick him out, and with good cause, so he took a nervous breath and tried again. 

“Please, hear me out. A... friend of mine has suffered a sexual violence. And I don't know how to help. I tried to find something in the library, a book, but there were none. I figured you...' he gestured at the room, to emphasise his point, “... would know better” he finished lamely. He risked a look at his interlocutor, and relaxed a bit in seeing her facade softening. 

“You figured well, dear. I'll be back in a second” she said, while standing up. She gestured to him to stay put and disappeared behind a door. She returned a second later, with other papers in her hand. 

“Follow me”. 

She took him through a corridor that was a lot emptier than the previous waiting room, straight to another woman, this one a lot younger with red hair and a friendly smile. The two women exchanged some words and then the redhead addressed him.

“Hello Brian! So, would you like to tell me something about your friend?”. 

 

This how Brian found himself seated in the very comfortable armchair of a very cosy waiting room, with a too-bright nurse that was babbling about 'the importance of love for sexual assault's survivors'. Really, she was making it sound like a wonderful opportunity for self-awareness and human connection instead of the traumatising experience that it is. She was increasingly getting onto Brian's nerves. He was glad Roger wasn't here, or the colourful glass lamp on the coffee table would have been in pieces by now.

“You are the key, Brian. Your friend needs an emotionally stable figure that is able to show her that the world is wonderful! She needs to see the beauty in the little things of everyday life, and how even the simple experience of a grocery trip can have a purpose! And of course she'll need love, from relatives as well as friends! Love is the key, Brian!” 

It wasn't even the fact that she was referring to Roger as a 'she' that was pissing him off, regardless of the fact that she didn't even bother to ask. Just all of her advices appeared, to Brian, like a bunch of crap. Good luck, lady, telling Roger that 'a grocery trip has purpose'. The man wanted to become a rock star, to crying out loud.

He let her ramble about the joy of the simple life, and tuned her out. He hoped to talk to a doctor, a  _real one_ , soon, or he was going to break that lamp on Roger's behalf. 

Luckily he didn't have to wait for long. Not more then ten minute later, a tall man in his fifties walked in the room. The man stared at Brian and at the nurse, taking in her excited expression and in the less than impressed one of Brian, and failed to hold back an amused smile.

“Mr. May, this way please”. 

 

The Doc's office was at least as cosy as his waiting room, with a plushy armchair and a comfortable-looking couch. Everything was painted in warm colours and the light was a warm yellow. It was arranged to make the patient relax, and Brian could tell it was working. He already felt better. The doctor gestured to the couch and Brian sat down, hoping to receive some answers.

“I should apologise for Betty. She means well, but she's still learning” the doctor said, offering Brian a warm smile. Brian nodded, he understood the feeling. He was at least as excited as the redhead when doing is TA work at his university. Probably his students were less than impressed by him too. 

“Nurse Allison told me that you need some help for your friend. Do you want to explain me what happened to her?”. 

Brian was unsure on how to react. He didn't think that the victim's genre made much difference, but maybe it was something worth of mentioning. He cleared his throat.

“Hum, actually... is an _him_. What happened to... him” he stammered, feeling a bit hot on his cheeks. The doctor's eyebrows raised a little at that, but he schooled his expression in a second. 

“Well, do you want to explain me what happened to him?”

Brian was thankful that the doctor didn't make the situation even weirder than already was, and proceeded to tell him everything. How he found his friends, the reactions of Roger after that night and in the morning, and what Deaky told him happened in the alley. The man listened carefully, asking once or twice for clarifications. A t the end of his tale, Brian felt drained. The doctor stayed silent for some minutes, deep in thoughts. 

“I should premise, Brian, that sadly the psychological side of the after-effect of sexual assaults are not a topic well studied, until now” he said, with an apologetic expression. Brian felt his heart heavy, why the fuck did he asked him to explain if he couldn't help anyway? But the doctor hadn't finished. 

“And there are few hospitals which offers a program for rape's survivors, here in London. However, the topic is slowly, but strongly, raising to attention. Especially in the United States” he went on, reaching with his hand the desk drawer. He took out some pamphlets, handing them to Brian. 

“I'm not specialised on the circumstances you ask me for, and I'm sorry for not being of help. However, those pamphlets can. They came directly from the Bay Area Women Against Rape, in Berkeley, and I think contain good advices” he concluded, with a small smile. Brian skimmed thorough the pages, and he had to agree with the doctor on that. They were bright coloured, with a lot of drawings, a bit like children's books, but apart from that they seemed useful. 

“Can I keep them?” Brian asked, he could use some time to read the informations in a more calming environment, it wasn't going to be an easy task. Besides, they would be a great help for Rog too, when he would, eventually, accept what happened to him. The doctor nodded. 

“Absolutely, they're yours”. Then the doctor seemed a bit uncomfortable, and Brian raised his eyebrow at him, confused. The man cleared his throat. 

“I recommend a medical examination to your friend. It's not mandatory, of course, but it would prevent... unpleasant consequences. If done in time”. 

Yeah, Brian agreed all right on that. Nevertheless...

“I'll speak to him. Hum... I hope he'll listen”. 

He couldn't offer more than that at the moment. Thankfully, the doctor understood his predicament, and didn't comment.

 

The entire way back to their flat, Brian walked in silence, lost in thoughts that circled around medical visits, sexual diseases and 'joy for the smallest things'. His pamphlets, kept close to his chest, his only hope to find a way out of this mess.

 

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 

 

Brian had gone off doing God knows what. Freddie was in their room, moping (yeah, he didn't believe at that sorry excuse of music for one second). Roger was missing. Well, maybe he was being a bit dramatic, here, he just wasn't home. And no one knew where he was. And he didn't left a note, or called back. Okay, Roger was missing.

And he was panicking.

John stood up from the couch and began pacing the room. He eyed the cleaning supplies that Brian left out earlier, and failed to suppress a smile. Seemed that their guitarist was as stressed out as him, at least. He had to find something to do too, or he would go crazy.

He could play his bass, the repetitiveness of rifts usually was good in soothing his racing mind. Alas, his bass was in his room. In which Freddie was moping. And, after their morning encounter, as well as the very much needed, if not appreciated, talk with Brian, John wasn't really thrilled by the idea of being shout at, again. Sorry not sorry.

He took a breath, closing his eyes. All that had of happened, and all that was going to happen, was so stressful that he felt his nerves frying. He didn't know if he would be able to cope. But he knew he had to. He owed it to Roger.

He made another cup of tea, the common early grey because he knew that Brian's small concession was limited in time, and went back to the living room.

He  _knew_ that Roger wasn't angry at him, rationally. His brain knew it, and Brian reassurances had helped, at least a bit. It was his nervous, shivering body that didn't get on with the program. Even if his mind could process that not only Roger gave away everything, pride and body, to keep him safe (even if he didn't ask for it, mind you), but that he actively went to John for comfort just after the terrible events... still, he wasn't sure. Roger had had all night to rethink about that evening, about his actions and John's as well. And he had all the rights to regret them. And to hate all the actors of the drama. To hate the men for their abuses, to hate John for his weakness, to hate  _himself_ for accepting the threats. God, John hoped that Roger wasn't hating himself because there was no reason for him to. He felt even worse than before, with the sudden realisation that Roger was  _alone_ with his thoughts, that could be full of anger reflected on the outside, which was understandable and fair and even good, or that could be full with hopelessness and grief and anger faced toward himself, which instead was dangerous, unjust and plainly wrong. 

They shouldn't have let him leave the flat by himself.

Again, John knew Roger wasn't going to do something drastic, like hurting himself or worse. But convincing his scared heart wasn't an easy task. He needed his blond friend near, his carefree personality and bright smile, to tell him that everything was going to be alright in the end.

And wasn't it just wrong, that he needed his traumatised friend to reassure him, when he was the one supposed to help the other heal? If John didn't know he was a mess before, this proved him right pretty quickly.

He realised he was crying only when he felt the wetness on his cheeks. Fuck, he was just a mess. Even if Roger wouldn't cut him out of his life, how was John supposed to help in this state? He had to get a grip on himself soon, or everything would crumble down without him even noticing.

 

Speaking of noticing... John was so trapped inside his head that didn't heard his bedroom's door opening, nor the soft padding of feet in his direction. He startled in hearing the quiet addressing of Freddie.

“John darling, are you crying?”. 

The older man sat down near him, and put an arm around his shoulders. It was the tipping point, and the dams were opened again. John throw himself at Freddie, encircling his slim waist with his arms, and sobbed like a toddler in his chest. Freddie held him close, softly stroking his back while murmuring sweet nothings in his hair. John couldn't discern what he was saying, but it didn't matter. He needed comfort, and if Freddie was ready to give it, he wasn't complaining. When he finally calmed down, he tried to push away from the singer, but he held tight, without stopping the light petting. John shuffled a bit to rest more comfortably in Freddie's arms, happy to have another warm body near him. He felt safer.

Also, he needed to get something out of his chest. He couldn't betray Roger's trust, nor he wanted to talk about the drummer predicament without him present, or consenting. But there was some misunderstanding that had to be cleared with Freddie. So, he took a breath and opened his mouth.

“We didn't sleep together, you know?” he rasped out, voice a bit rough after all that crying. Freddie hummed. 

“Yes, I gathered that” he nodded, thoughtfully. They both stayed silent for a minute, just cuddling. John felt his eyelids dropping, he was so tired. Then Freddie spoke again. 

“Something else happened, am I right?” he asked, and seemed uncharacteristically coy. John yawned, trying to stay awake. He hummed in agreement. 

“Yes, it did”. John could feel how Freddie was holding his breath. John closed his eyes, feeling warm and content for the first time in that horrible weekend.

“Something bad?” Freddie asked after some time. John was on the edge of drowsiness. 

“Yes, bad. Terrible even” he mumbled out. The last thing he heard before unconsciousness was Freddie's sharp intake of breath. 

 

*

 

When John woke up, the room was dark. He was resting on the couch, a pillow under his head and a blanket over him. He rubbed his eyes and looked around the room. No one in sight, and the flat was eerily silent. He guessed he was alone.

With a sigh he sat up, the blanket slipping from his shoulders. He saw a note on the coffee table and took it.

 

_Went to the shop, we're out of milk and I wanted to make hot chocolate!  
I'll come back soon_

_xx Freddie_

 

John smiled to himself and put the note down. Sweet Freddie, he was a real angel when he wasn't occupied in being a dick. Which was seldom, anyway. For him to be so pissed and scornful this morning... he had to love Roger a lot. Stupid, both of them.

 

He just finished the thought that he heard the door opening. He jumped up from the couch, heart in his throat. Maybe it was just Freddie coming back, but still...

The mop of curls of Brian staggered just outside the living room, and John sighed. Still no Roger. He slumped down on the couch, disheartened. Brian came in a second later, a question on his already open lips.

“Did he...” 

John stopped him in his track, shaking his head. Brian sighed.

“He'll come back, don't worry. He will” he said, strongly. John didn't know who he was trying to convince most, but kept his mouth shut. There was no use in arguing anyway. 

Brian sat down with him, carefully folding the blanket on the armrest. Then he handed him some books.

“I found something. It's not much, but can help us... at least in understanding”. 

John looked down at the pamphlets in his arms, and cringed. Too much colour for a topic that sad, in his opinion. He opened one just to humour Brian. He knew that the guitarist needed to think he had some kind of control over the situation, and he was grateful that him was able to act on the urge, instead of staying home and crying every two hours. Still, he really hoped that Brian wasn't going to slap them in Roger's hand at the first occasion, because he could foresee here and there that it was going to end horribly. He skimmed through the text and shivered. 'Repulsed by intimacy: a common reaction' read the paragraph. He slammed the cover shut.

“I know is not a fairy tale book... but it can help”. Brian, again, was trying to convince someone, probably himself, of the goodness of his idea. John only nodded, numbed. 

“Yeah, it can. Just, don't show Roger. Not now”. 

Brian agreed easily, and went to put the pamphlets in his room. John counted to three, waiting. Brian rushed out of his  _shared_ room with Roger, and sheepishly asked John to hide them in his room. The bassist gave a quiet laugh and complied, at least reassured of the fact that some things never changed, besides the circumstances. 

 

*

 

Freddie returned not long after Brian, and seemed quite peeved by the fact that Roger still wasn't home. John didn't give it much thought, being as worried as ever by now. It was nearing dinner time, and the streets were already dark. Where the hell was Roger?

If he cried a bit more in the bathroom, nobody pointed it out.

 

*

 

Roger came home two hours later, and he seemed fine. John had his small but heart-warming reassurance that Roger wasn't angry with him, didn't want him out of his life, and still loved him the same. They hugged, Roger smiled and John felt like everything was going to be okay.

Then Roger went pale at the sole mention of dinner, and rushed out in his room like he was hunted. Brian looked in his direction, worry digging lines on his forehead. John swallowed, but the lump in his throat didn't move a bit.   
Freddie exited the kitchen a moment later, a pink apron around his hips and a wooden spoon in hand, demanding to know what the hell Roger was thinking. He tried knocking on Rog's bedroom door but, after the third attempt, he gave up.

They had dinner in silence, hoping to hear a sound from the other room and being disappointed. Freddie was silently seething, and John didn't understand why but didn't dared to ask. It seemed that Freddie had decided to look for clarifications directly from the main source, and with Roger locked away he preferred to not bother the other two with questions that they could not answer.

John went to bed early that night, feeling dreadful. The journey to normality was going to be a long and bumpy road.

 

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

 

 

It was the literal definition of a panic attack, he was sure of that. Still, he couldn't even begin to accept that it happened to him. He never,  _ever_ , had a panic attack in  _his entire life_ , and his childhood hadn't been exactly a stroll in the park. Not even his nightmares had been able to make him lose control of his body like that, and he was positively terrified. 

He heard Freddie's attempts to lure him out of his sancta sanctorum, but Roger had stayed really quiet and very still, and eventually Freddie had to give up. Probably he was just worried about him not having dinner. Or maybe he wanted to apologise...  _yeah, sure, try again Rog._ Maybe he wanted to discuss about their morning encounter and, just to be on the safe side, argue a bit more. 

No, Roger wasn't able to take it. Not tonight.

 

He was aware of the fact that Brian shared a room with him, and he would have want to go to bed at some point in the night. Besides the next day was Monday, and that meant lectures. Go to university, out of their flat, among other people...

He was hyperventilating, and that was no good. Okay, easy, just don't think about that. He could work with no thinking.

Of course after not more than two hours Brian knocked on the door. Roger was afraid of answering, on letting anyone near him at the moment – a mess, you're a mess, pathetic, weak,  _broken_ – but Brian was absolutely gentle about it, explaining that he would sleep on the couch if Roger needed a bit of peace. After that Roger couldn't bare the idea of leaving him out of his own room, and tentatively opened the door, scrambling back under his duvet not even a second later. Brian entered slowly, as trying not to startle a particular begrudged badger, and Roger felt almost like laughing. Or crying, really. He slumped down, face pressed on the pillow, and decided to ignore his roommate as long as it was possible. Thank to the Lord, Brian didn't say a word. He just changed in his pyjamas, something that Roger didn't bother to do, and slipped under his covers, turning off the light with a soft 'good night' that Roger barely acknowledged. 

 

He tried to go to sleep, but to no avail. He tossed and turned in bed for almost an hour before giving up. He got up silently, without waking Brian. The man seemed weary before, he deserved some sleep. Roger didn't know in what he engaged that afternoon, but surely it was tiring. 

He stumbled into the kitchen without turning on the light. He needed to drink something, and maybe have a smoke. Yes, a smoke, to relax a bit and, let's hope, be able to sleep. Roger had just filled a glass on the tap when he heard footsteps behind him. Frantically he looked for a way out, but it was too late. The night visitor stopped at the kitchen door and turned on the light. 

“Roger? Darling, you alright?”. 

Sweet Jesus, if Roger didn't know before, he would have now. He was a very unlucky person. Of all the people in the flat... 

“Yeah Fred, I'm fine” he croaked out. He thought about saying something else, but nothing came in mind. All his senses concentrating on stay upright and _no thinking_ about the morning debate. 

“Where were you, darling? John was heartbroken!” Freddie said, and the accusing underline of his tone didn't escape Roger. The blond furrowed his brows, he knew, thank you very much, and wasn't proud of it, but he deserved some time alone. The sole idea that John felt like he was justified in going and crying into Freddie's arms about it didn't sit right on him. Anyway, Roger didn't want to argue. Not tonight. 

“I know. I apologised” he told Freddie, without turning around. He didn't want Freddie to see his face, the man was too perceptive for his own, and _Roger's_ , good. The blond knew that, with a look, Freddie would be able to tell he wasn't fine _at all_. And again, not tonight. Seemed that Freddie had other plans, though, because he marched in the kitchen not a second after. 

“What were you thinking? Poor John was crying his eyes out, the dear. He thinks that you blame him for what happened! How could you let him believe something like that?” he whisper-screamed, stilling just near Roger but without touching him. Roger's heart stopped beating. 

Did they _tell_ him?

Freddie was still talking, but Roger couldn't hear. The only sound on his ears was his blood, roaring, and his body was racked by cold shivers. They couldn't have, he couldn't know, he didn't want to be the frail, broken victim, Freddie couldn't know, who was going to  _want_ a frail, broken,  _used_ ... 

“Roger, are you even listening? Whatever horrible thing happened to John yesterday night, it wasn't his fault. You can't blame him for it! You're going to take what is left of him and _crush him for good_!” Freddie went on in his tirade, but Roger had to stop here. What happened _to John_? 

“He was crying, and he said that yesterday something terrible happened. And what do you do? You storm out on him! Only because I misunderstood, there was no need to..”

“What did you misunderstood?” he intervened, stopping Freddie. He had to, he couldn't just stay there and take all this abuse. On top of what he already took the night before. Freddie looked down, a bit sheepishly. 

“I... I though the two of you shagged. And I was pissed about it. Happy?” he blurted out to a wide-eyed, stunned Roger. Him and _John_? It was hilarious. 

“Me... with John?” Roger repeated, not sure he understood. When Freddie looked away, finding the cupboard door particularly fascinating, Roger scoffed. 

“John is straight, you buffoon” Roger retorted, despite everything amused. Freddie's cheeks reddened slightly. 

“Well, how could I know? Besides, you could have made him change his mind” he replied absent-mindedly. Only to slap an hand over his mouth when he realised what he had just said. Roger rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah, thank you. I'm flattered” he intoned, enjoying an embarrassed Freddie. That wasn't an usual sight. Freddie didn't reply, and Roger took the opportunity to finish his water. Well, that explanation, at least, brought some light on their early discussion. The 'man' Freddie was referring to wasn't the one... wasn't no one but John, and the knowledge alone was able to lift a small burden from Roger's heart. He had just planned on a honourable retreat, when Freddie spoke again. 

“You... you don't blame him, do you?” he whispered softly, an hurt expression in his beautiful brown eyes. Roger wanted to cry. Freddie misunderstood that morning, and again that afternoon, but Roger didn't feel like telling him the truth. He should, and he knew that not saying anything now was going to bite him in the ass later. But he wanted to live the lie, as long as he was able to. He sighed. 

“No, of course I don't”. It wasn't even a lie, Roger did not blame John. He resolved to tell Deaky himself in the morning, again and again, till it entered the stubborn bassist's mind for good. Freddie nodded, but didn't seem convinced. If anything, he was watching Roger with a thoughtful, and a bit suspicious, glare, and Roger had to suppress his tears. He swallowed, he had to get a fucking grip on himself and get out of there. Freddie was anything but stupid, and it seemed he already picked up that something was wrong. 

“Well, I'm going back to bed. Night, Freddie” he rasped, making and abrupt turn to flee the kitchen. Freddie didn't follow. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? Is Freddie suspicious? (yes, he is ;))

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to anyone who arrived at the end. I planned 4 chapter, but I'm not sure if there will be more 'cause I just have a lot of ideas floating in my mind.  
> This is exam period for me, so the updating will be fluctuating. 
> 
> Also, I'm looking for a beta-reader. Please, can anybody find me a beta? 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who will live a comment, they are really appreciated xD


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